


Five Times Someone Fervently Regretted Making Incorrect Assumptions About Members of the Round Table

by StarlightInHerEyes22



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 5 and 1 things, Bamfery, Bromance, Did I mention Outsider POV?, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Gwen is sneaky, Knows all, Lancelot is perfect, Merlin confuses everyone he meets, Merlin deserved better damn it, More tags to be added, Protective Knights are Protective, and Should be Feared by all who are Mean to Her Boys, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6638830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightInHerEyes22/pseuds/StarlightInHerEyes22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...And One Occassion on Which it Would Have Been Pretty Bloody Hard to Misread the Situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which the Knights are Mistaken for Bandits and it is all Rather Amusing... Until Someone Threatens the Scrawny Manservant

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a series of unconnected one shots, most either in the gaps between seasons three and four, or four and five. Consider it a bonus apology for having been away so long. Enjoy!

_Mistake the First_

It was a simple misunderstanding. 

The first man to draw his attention had all the hallmarks of a sword-for-hire. Tall, broad, well-muscled – obviously a warrior. His hair was long and ruffled, his face covered in three days-worth of stubble and his clothes in as many weeks’ travel grime; his smile was bright and carefree and dangerous; his laugh was that of scallawags the world over. And no one but those who had seen too much dark and not enough light ever felt the need to purchase quite that much ale. 

The man made his way back over to his companions, wending through the packed taproom with practiced ease, and Dwarin’s interest piqued further. The group simply oozed deadly competence and no small amount of involuntary menace. He’d seen their kind before, and he didn’t care whether that easy comradeship and subtle stonewalling of all outsiders came from shared danger originating in honest mercenary work or less-than-honest banditry – they were just what he needed. 

He stood abruptly, slamming his mug into the counter in satisfaction. Then he caught sight of a sixth man wedged in between the mercenaries, and he frowned. This man didn’t fit his needs, nor his expectations. He was dwarfed by his companions, a slender, pale shadow barely visible in amongst the towering muscle around him. Barely a man at all, in fact. Dwarin shrugged and dismissed him. Only the best bandits could afford servants, after all. Perhaps he could convince the men to part with the lad and earn an extra profit for all of them. 

Dwarin strode across the stained hardwood floor, feeling a thrill of satisfaction as the less inebriated patrons scuttled out of his way. The mercenaries seated facing him noticed his approach before he’d taken three steps, their body language changing subtly and their faces hardening just enough to be noticeable. Dwarin noted the way the men on the other side of the table – even the servant – quieted their boisterous conversation almost immediately, reacting to their friends. For the slightest moment he faltered, disconcerted by the almost eerie synchrony of the movement. Perhaps, a tiny voice inside of his mind offered, these men were just a bit outside of his budget. Then he shook himself, feeling marginally better when Peta and Anthony took their cue to appear at his flanks. He was the only shark inside of this pond. Everyone else simply conformed to his needs. 

He stepped up and slid smoothly onto the bench at their table, leaving a few inches between himself and the next man. Enough room to slip in a shiv if necessary, but close enough that they could hear him. The man, who’s fair features and somewhat gentler manner made him look out of place in the dive around them, stiffened and casually shifted away. Dwarin frowned, but ignored the subtle slight. He’d picked up on the small cues, the tiny head movements and flickering eyes, and he turned to face the man directly across from himself in accordance with the slight deference that the other mercenaries showed him. Their leader was surprisingly young – most of the men around them had at least a few years on him. His eyes were older, though, and hard as flint. The warrior cocked his head to the side, almost staring Dwarin down, and the older man realised that he had a very limited window in which to prove that _he_ was the one in charge here. 

“I hope that you have found my tavern to your liking,” he said to open, with a slight emphasis on the word _my_. “If there’s anything else that you require, my people will be sure to take care of it.”

“That’s… very kind,” the golden mercenary in front of him replied carefully, shifting slightly. Dwarin wondered how many blades he other man had stashed about his person. He himself needed only to flick his wrist and a sizeable carver would slide down out of his sleeve, ready to fillet the first person who made a move towards him. Not all warriors were so prepared, with their preference for swords and other, more ostentatious weapons. 

“I always try to do right by my new friends.” The mercenary’s lips twitched slightly, and further down the table Dwarin could have sworn that he heard a tiny snort. He gritted his teeth and ignored it. “It’s often so easy to come to a… mutually beneficial agreement.”

“For drinks,” the other man said, looking at him oddly, and Dwarin got the distinct impression that he was being mocked. That was two strikes. One more, he told himself firmly, and mutually beneficial arrangement or not these men would be thrown out of his bar with complementary blades through their kidneys.

“Among other things. You’ll find that there is always work for good fighting men in these parts.” There. It was out on the table. He allowed himself a measure of smug satisfaction as several of the men perked up in interest, the golden leader among them. Now to sweeten the deal. “Nothing too strenuous of course. A few shipments that need transportation off the beaten track, that’s all. I’m sure that we could come to an agreement that you would find more than satisfactory.”

The other man seemed to consider it for a moment or two, his eyes sliding to glance between his men before coming back to rest of Dwarin with all the intensity of a hawk. “And the cargo?” he said quietly, and Dwarin shrugged. 

“Bits and pieces. Most of it picked up over the border in Camelot, so no-one around these parts will be asking questions. Hazard pay is included for handling the merchandise that still has a bit of fight in it, but most of them won’t give you a lick of trouble.”

The silence was palpable, and the slaver started to wonder if he’d said something out of place. “Human cargo,” one of the other men said flatly, and when Dwarin glanced down he was surprised, and angered, to see that it was the young serving lad staring at him with fearless, accusing eyes. “That’s what you want transported. Slaves.”

“Shut up Merlin,” the head mercenary said harshly, and the lad threw the both of them a look that was pure insolence. 

“You’d best put a leash on your boy,” Dwarin said acidly, stinging. “I’ll do it for you if you’re looking for a bit extra on the side.”

Dwarin didn’t even see anyone move. The next thing he knew, someone had their hand around the back of his head and the wooden table was approaching his face at an alarming rate. 

The slaver’s nose took the brunt of the impact, and he couldn’t help crying out as his head bounced back up with a _crunch_. Stinging tears blurred his vision, but he was fairly certain that it was the dark haired one whom he had thought too gentle looking by far that had moved. 

“Well done, Lance,” someone said appreciatively – it sounded like the roguish one who’d gone for drinks – and then everything went to hell. 

Peta and Anthony, his two bruisers, stepped in just a bit too late; Dwarin waited for them to grab ‘Lance’ by the scruff of his neck and cave his head in with one of their clubs. It never happened. Instead another mercenary stood, looming up over his boys – and everyone else in the establishment – by a good head and shoulders. Anthony hesitated and Peta followed his lead, and that was all it took for the bear-man to grab the two of them and knock their heads together, grunting slightly as they both collapsed like so many sacks of potatoes. Dwarin stared. He tried to say something pacifying. What came out sounded more like “mimble-wimble.”

Someone screamed, and that was all it took for chaos to break out throughout his tavern. Someone else caught sight of the two unconscious men and added their own scream for good measure. Those closest to the exits scrambled over each other in a mass exodus, sensing further oncoming violence with that uncanny ability often found in drinking establishments. Those further in started throwing punches at any unlucky enough to be in their way. Blades where drawn, and the caterwauling of his hired minstrel cut off sharply as the woman shrugged and decided that her skills would be better employed in pickpocketing everyone in reach in the confusion. Dwalin himself tried his damndest to take advantage of the noise and motion to rise and slip quietly away to lick his wounds. 

It didn’t quite work. Instead he found one of the mercenaries, this one curly-haired and noble looking, sliding onto the bench on his other side; effectively boxing him in. The slaver didn’t even dare raise his hand to stem the blood flowing out of his destroyed nose as the golden leader leaned across the table in front of him, stopping only to glance to the side and snap a command at the rogue. 

“Get Merlin out of here.”

“The hell with that,” the lad retorted, and the rogue shrugged. 

“I don’t think he wants to miss this, princess.”

“Fine,” their leader snapped, and Dwarin had the presence of mind to realise, in that instant, that knowingly or not the boy had just saved his life. The man opposite him let him know with one single look, in no uncertain terms, that if ‘Merlin’ hadn’t been there to witness it, the slaver would have found himself minus a few integral body parts. “You. You will tell me where the rest of your men are. You will tell me where your... cargo is, and you will do nothing when we set them free and take them back to their homes. Neither will you complain to Lot when this tavern is mysteriously burnt to the ground. And you will be taken back to Camelot to stand trial for your crimes.”

“Who are you?” was all that Dwarin could manage, the copper tang of blood thick on his tongue as he struggled to comprehend the magnitude of his miscalculation. And spark of hope that he had left was extinguished when the man smiled, shark-like. 

“My name is Arthur. You may know me as Prince-Regent of Camelot.”

The smaller man snorted again, peering around his larger companions to grin – actually _grin_ – smugly over at Dwarin. Dwarin stared back, dumbstruck, but quickly dropped his head when the warrior between them shifted threateningly… no, protectively, to block Merlin from sight. 

He didn’t know who that lad was, but he was no servant. He didn’t know who any of these men were. But two things he did know for sure.

He wished that he’d never seen any of them. And, if he survived and ever found his way back to freedom, he was thoroughly checking the credentials of anyone he tried to hire ever again. 


	2. In Which It Should Never Be Assumed That Sir Leon is a Prat

_Mistake the Second_

It was a simple miscommunication. 

Or so Sir Anghus assured his wife, later. After all, he had been tired and sore from training. He was annoyed. He’d had a headache. He wasn’t watching his words.

“The manservant I’d almost convinced myself was acceptable,” he began, throwing his practice shield onto the racks with perhaps more vigour than was strictly necessary; and feeling completely justified in doing so when Sir Jon and Sir Malvin followed his example, their heads starting to bob in tiny nodding motions as they cottoned on to where he was headed. He glanced surreptitiously around the room, the smaller armoury that annexed onto the training fields, before continuing. He may have been tired, but he wasn’t _stupid_. They were completely alone in it; all of the veteran knights off in some meeting or another, and all of the younger having already cleared out. Satisfied, he took a breath to give voice to the complaint resting on the tip of his tongue, pausing just slightly when he caught sight of Sir Leon slipping in through the doorway. Their eyes met briefly, and for a fraction of a second he thought better of what he had been about to say – but Jon was watching him expectantly, and Malvin had a laughing gleam in his eyes, and he was frustrated, and, by hell, Leon was one of _them_. One of the old guard. Surely he would understand.

“Almost, mind,” he added, though nowhere near as loudly as he might have otherwise. “He might be an uppity little… but at least he’s still more or less in his place. At least he still _serves_.” He trailed off towards the end, almost muttering the words, and blinked in surprise when Mal immediately picked up the thread and with far more confidence, a smile playing at the corners of his friend’s mouth.

“Not like these new peasants Arthur’s picked up out of the gutter,” Malvin said brashly in agreeance, his eyes sliding to watch Leon slyly. “Bastard sons of ha’penny farm hands the lot of them, if you ask me. How is it that fighting one battle for the crown makes them good enough to run drills for the real knights? Men who’ve trained since birth and have a dozen generations of warring in their blood?”

Out of his peripherals, Anghus saw Sir Leon still slightly, pausing before the racks of weaponry with a closed expression. The knight shot his friend a warning look, tilting his head slightly in the direction of their superior, but Malvin only winked recklessly in response. It took a moment, and Jon’s once familiar “Hear, hear,” for Anghus to recognise the tone of Mal’s behaviour, from a time when they’d all been young and had the then prince’s unwavering favour. This wasn’t that Mal didn’t care how Leon would react; his friend _wanted_ the king’s left hand to hear what they had been going to say, _wanted_ the other knight to carry their words back to the Arthur’s newest recruits. Wanted to let them know that, despite what the prince regent may say, they were not welcome here. 

Anghus quietened slightly, gaze sliding over in Leon’s direction, evaluating his comrade’s reaction to their words as Jon and Malvin cheerfully bemoaned the ‘good old days’. Camelot’s first knight had ceased bothering to pretend to sort through the training swords; instead he stood leaning against one of the racks, listening openly with a vaguely interested expression, and nothing more. It gave the younger knight a moment’s pause. Perhaps the same thoughts had gone through Leon’s mind – he was of the highest stock Camelot’s old houses had to offer, after all – but still Anghus would have expected something in the way of a reaction. A token defence of the men he seemed to find himself fighting regularly alongside, if not an impassioned one; even a few words berating them for doubting the decisions of their Prince Regent. Instead the other man caught his eye and smiled politely, and Anghus felt himself relaxing, and smiling conspiratorially back. 

“…the son of a bloody smith!” Malvin was saying, when he tuned back into his friends’ complaints. “And all of the peasants down in the city know it! Most of them know _him_! What sort of message does that send them?”

“Don’t forget his sister,” Anghus added jovially. “Haven’t you heard? Apparently the little wench thinks she’s a lady now that her brother’s tricked his way into a knighthood. As if any real lord is going to think of marrying the same woman who’s spent half her life scrambling out of his way with the linens.”

“I can’t wait until one of the peasant knights gets paired with us in training,” Jon said with relish. “I’ll show them what a real knight is capable of. I’ll give them a thrashing that will send them crying back to whatever muddy little village they came from.”

Anghus joined with Mal in laughing, finding himself feeling better about the entire situation than he had in weeks. Jon finally finished up with whatever he had been doing, and with a series of nods and gestures and playful cuffs, the three of them made to troupe out the door and back towards the castle, where food and drink were undoubtedly waiting. Sir Anghus sent a cheerfully vague wave in Leon’s direction as they went, his mind already turned to other things. 

If he’d bothered to actually look, he would have noticed that Sir Leon was no longer smiling. 

  
₪₪₪₪₪

  


There were several constants in the life of a knight, Sir Anghus found himself deciding. One was the fearful adoration of the commoners; of which he was quite fond. Second was the copious quantities of gold, which led to other pleasant things, such of even greater quantities of ale. Next came training. That was the one he could do without. And yet, without fail, it always managed to roll around again. 

(The other certainty, he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, was death. Sudden, violent, painful, and filled with the dubious concept of glory. He found that he’d rather get his fill of adoration and gold in before that time, thank you very much. And he didn’t need a bunch of commoners impinging on his glory after he’d worked so very hard for it, either.)

He leaned back as far as he could on the bench, watching Leon pairing up training partners from out front with perhaps more affability than he would have previously. The peasant knights, he saw with startled pleasure, had suddenly been relegated to the sidelines with the rest of them. No drill running for them today. Anghus grinned quietly, wondering if Leon had had anything to do with that. 

“Sir Jon,” the man in question called, and Anghus’ friend perked up next to him. “Find a spare patch and pair with… Sir Percival, I think.”

Anghus blinked, and he noticed Jon startling a little, the two of them exchanging looks. He shrugged, smiling a little, and nudged Jon in the direction of the field – suddenly seeing what Leon was up too. The same understanding dawned in Jon’s eyes, and the bigger knight grinned suddenly, sending a small, pleased salute off in Leon’s direction and marching off with his sword comfortably in one hand. 

Leon nodded pleasantly back, turning back to the dwindling number of knights remaining. “Sir Malvin,” he called next, and the knight tensed in anticipation. “And Sir Lancelot.” Malvin all but bounded away, and Anghus found himself the last of their little group. Looking around, he was startled to find himself one of the last knights left full stop.

“Oh,” Leon said, as though he had come to the same conclusion. “Well. I guess that just leaves Sir Anghus, and Sir Elyan. Pull up a piece of grass, you two. Best of luck.” And with that he nodded affably and strode off to observe from the side of the practice field, yelling “Get your head out of the tavern, Gwaine,” as he went. 

Anghus’ eyes slid over to the younger man, and to his surprise Sir Elyan smiled back. “Training, right?” he said in cheerful complaint. “I don’t think we’ve spoken much before. It’s Elyan.”

“Anghus,” he replied shortly, gesturing towards the green. “Shall we?”

The other knight shrugged and trailed after him, picking out the only spare patch left amongst twenty odd pairs of shouting, clashing knights, each trying to batter their opponent into submission – and perhaps manage to hone their skills while they were at it. Anghus pulled up and turned to face his own adversary, noting that Jon and Mal were still sizing up their opponents on either side of him. 

“It’s always good to face someone new in training, you know?” Sir Elyan called, and Anghus grunted, raising his sword into the guard position. “Keeps things from getting boring.”

“Just get on with it,” Anghus interrupted, something about the other man’s annoyingly friendly tone irritating him to no end. If _Sir_ Elyan had spoken to him in such a familiar manner before his knighthood, Anghus would have had him thrown in the stocks. With that thought in mind, the knight didn’t bother waiting for his compatriot to signal his own readiness, whipping his blunted sword up and towards the younger man’s face with snake-like speed. 

To his surprise, Elyan didn’t even blink, his own sword interceding with a _clang_. The younger knight smiled, something glimmering in his eyes. And Anghus suddenly realised that he was holding his sword in his _left_ hand, a warning bell tolling in the back of his mind.

A couple of years previously, Sir Leon had approached Anghus after training, and taken him aside to have a serious conversation about his sloppy defence on his left hand side; pointing out that if he were ever to face an opponent who didn’t favour their right hand, they’d sail right through his guard. Anghus had brushed it off. How many left handed swordsmen were out there? He’d never come across one before. Very few swords masters would have allowed it in their students. 

In a flash of insight, Anghus tore his eyes away from his opponent for a fraction of a second, seeking out Leon where he was leaning up against the railing outside the practice green. 

Camelot’s First Knight was smiling, too.

And suddenly it was all that Anghus could do to keep his sword in his hand as Elyan went on the offensive. 

The younger man hammered merrily away at his defence on his left side, and Anghus parried awkwardly, _feeling_ the movement pulling him off centre and off balance. He tried to correct, struggling to recall what Leon had said about the flawed technique, but for the life of him he couldn’t dredge the words back up – and all it took from Elyan, once the other man had realised that his concentration was split, was a neat, incredibly fast slash to the right instead, and Anghus found himself over-reaching in an attempt to parry. And just like that the blunted weapon hooked around, slapping him painfully in the elbow, the ribs, and finally the knee, sending him tumbling unceremoniously into the ground where he lay, groaning. 

Anghus peeled his eyes back open, blinking rapidly. Elyan’s cheerful face grinned back down at him, above the blunted sword hovering at his throat. Held in the other knight’s _right_ hand. 

“That _was_ fun.” Elyan’s face hardened. “Just so you know, I’m not here to defend my sister’s honour. Just my own.” The smile was back. “She’s perfectly capable of defending her own honour.” And the sword vanished back into its sheath, leaving Anghus alone in the dirt as its owner ambled off, whistling merrily. 

A sudden premonition souring his gut, Anghus turned his head painfully to the right. As he’s rather expected, Malvin’s miserable face looked back at him. His friend, at least, was sitting upright – even if his sword had somehow managed to land a good ten metres away, and he was nursing what looked like a broken wrist. To the side, Sir Lancelot was apologising profusely. He didn’t sound very sincere. 

He glanced to the left, and winced. Jon was unconscious. Percival looked mildly, disappointedly surprised. 

“What the bloody hell happened over here?”

Anghus closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the ground with a _thump_ as his Prince Regent’s voice swept closer. He cracked one eye open, and found Arthur staring down at the three of them in bewilderment, Sir Leon leaning over his shoulder with that same painfully, sincerely, terrifyingly pleasant expression on his face. 

“I guess that they bit off more than they could chew, sire,” the First Knight said sagely. “I would have expected the bouts to last a _bit_ longer, particularly considering the _generations_ of warring in Sir Malvin’s blood.”

“Oh. Well. Better luck next time, men,” Arthur replied, grimacing sympathetically. “Perhaps you could ask Lancelot to offer you a few extra pointers before you head back up to the castle. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to help.”

Anghus groaned wordlessly in reply.

  
₪₪₪₪₪

  


Unfortunately for Sir Anghus, that was not the end of it. 

He, Jon and Malvin had come to a few conclusions, once they’d dragged themselves off of the training field and – ironically – into the annexing armoury. First, that avoidance and good, old-fashioned shunning were perfectly suitable means of showing their dislike of the peasant knights. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, that Sir Leon had made his loyalties quite clear. For whatever reason, he had sided with _them_. He was also to be avoided.

And, thirdly, that they should all go back to their respective chambers and get stunningly drunk. 

The knight hauled himself up the staircase and barged through the door into his suite of chambers, tossing his cloak aside and wondering whether the servants would have drawn his bath already. “Marissa, I’m home, love,” he called, unbuckling his sword from his belt and lobbing it after the cloak. “Please tell me there’s food somewhere.”

“Anghus!” His wife’s voice came singing out from the dining room. “Come in! We have a guest!”

Anghus frowned. It was probably one of his wife’s friends, but he did wish that they could have just gone for a walk around the gardens like she usually did. He wasn’t in the entertaining mood. He straightened his cloak, and brushed a stray clod of dirt from his chainmail, striding though the hallway and out into the dining area. “Who do I have the pleasure off…” His voice trailed away. 

“Hello, Sir Anghus,” Guinevere said kindly, smiling as she took a dainty sip from her tea. “How lovely to see you.” 

“Guinevere has been telling me the most fascinating stories,” Marissa gushed. Any other man wouldn’t have noticed the steel in her eyes, but Anghus saw in clearly, and he quailed. “About how difficult it has been, transitioning to her new life. Apparently some of the nobles have been absolutely _horrible._ And I said, dear one, I completely understand. I went through the same thing myself, even if I only had to transition from the life of a merchant’s daughter, and a wealthy one at that.”

“Yes… well… I imagine… I remember-”

“And then we started trading stories. Guinevere has the most _hilarious_ accounts of things that she’s heard, even only recently.” His wife’s eyes turned positively lupine. “Why don’t you tell me more about the Lady Dinae and yourself? I never knew that you were such close… _friends.”_

Guinevere’s smile was startlingly close to that of her brother. 

  
₪₪₪₪₪

  


It must be noted for posterity that Lord Anghus and Lady Dinae’s friendship did not last another day; and that his respect for Gwen and for her knights, particularly during her reign as Queen, was deep and thoroughly long abiding. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I took a couple of liberties with this one, first and foremost with Gwen's status at this time. I elevated her a bit, even though in canon we still see her working as a maid at this point (at the start of season 4). But Elyan _is_ a knight, and that would technically make her a lady. Also, I'm not sure why I have a headcanon that Elyan is ambidextrous. Same reason I think Percy was a wheeler, probably. Maybe it has something to do with the smith thing. If anyone's wondering, Leon _did_ tell Elyan about the left handed thing - because he may be an upstanding knight, but he's also adorably loyal to his friends. Also, the knights would have viewed this more as proving themselves than beig nasty, and Gwaine wasn't paired up with any of the nasty knights 'cos Leon didn't trust him to leave it at just beating them in combat. Let's be honest, I wouldn't either. 
> 
> It took me so long to come up with a plot I was happy with, and I hope you all enjoyed it. Maybe the next update won't take _quite_ so long. No promises, though ;) Thanks for not giving up on me, to all the people who've been sending me messages. 
> 
> Also, please, please read the works drag0nst0rm has been cross-posting on the archive recently. They're fantastic :D


	3. Interlude - In Which Merlin Meets the Ghost of Camelot Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't do to make assumptions about the servants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Something a bit different this chapter, to celebrate reaching 100 user followers on my account. This is post-canon, and a little tiny bit of a fix-it. There's no big over-arching assumption here, but rather a series of little ones that are corrected by a conversation with Gwen. Still outsider POV. Hope you all enjoy.

There was a stranger looking back at her, from the painting that was meant to be her father's.

It was the first time she'd noticed him, and it was no wonder why; he was tucked away in the background of the scene, almost out of sight, save that some trick of the lighting had given the artist need to render his features rather than shading him away into a formless shadow. He wasn't the only servant depicted, but he was the one that stood out to her most. Perhaps because he was laughing.

It struck her as disrespectful, somehow. Certainly, her mother and father smiled too, captured forever in the midst of the feast and their joy by the delicate strokes of paint. So too did the knights seated beside them along the raised high table, to varying degrees. But she could put a name to each of the knights. They had earned their places beside her parents, their king and queen. The servant had snuck his way into the painting unwanted - had been immortalised, undeserved, by some whim of fate.

She didn't want to see him there.

"Why are you frowning?" her mother asked gently, tucking a strand of her away behind Elena's ear in a practiced, absent movement. "I thought you wanted to see your father? I know how you two like to talk."

"I can't talk to father if _he's_ listening, mother," Elena insisted, six-year old face screwed up in a pout. "He doesn't have any right to listen."

A touch of a frown marred her mother's beautiful face. "Who, dearest?"

" _Him_ ," Elena said venomously, pointing at the scruffy servant peering over her father's shoulder with an irritating twinkle in his eye. "Why did they put a servant in the picture, mother? I don't like having him in father's picture." He spoiled the image of noble knights in shining armour and her mother and father happy and whole, a speck of dirt on a silver plate.

"Oh," her mother said, her voice suddenly strained, and Elena wondered if it was the first time mother had noticed him, too. It took a very long time for more words to come, and when they did Elena wasn't entirely sure that she understood them. "We can't change the past, dearest one. I… I'm so terribly sorry, I don't think I can stay and talk to your father today. How about we go and find your nurse? Mother has to go and rest." Elena reluctantly nodded her acquiescence, waving goodbye to her father and glaring at the servant again as they left.

She was only six years old, but it still occurred to her to wonder why her mother began to cry.

 

oOo

 

When Elena was nine, she looked out at the squires beginning their training, out at the knights with their swords and battle-steeds and armour, and turned to her mother and said, "I think that I would like to do that, too."

The Queen observed her for a long, long moment, and Elena tried not to squirm. And then her mother nodded, decisive, and said, "Very well then."

 

oOo

 

At ten, Elena came across the servant for the second time.

He was in a different painting this time, one that she'd never seen before and happened to come across in an older wing of the palace. She stopped to admire it for the sole reason that she thought she recognised a couple of the knights depicted. A closer look and she became sure - these were the Round Table knights from her mother's stories. Her uncle, Sir Elyan, beamed out at her from the centre in full ceremonial armour and she wondered for a moment if this had been commissioned to celebrate his knighthood, and that of the others. They certainly looked younger than in any of the other paintings.

Elena twinkled her fingers at her uncle in farewell, but another figure caught the corner of her eye before she made to continue. She turned back fully and scowled.

It annoyed her that she even recognised him, but she had long ago decided that speaking to her father was worth putting up with the servant's eaves-dropping and returned to conversing with the painting in her mother's solar, and so had become familiar with his features. The servant wasn't laughing in this painting, but neither was his expression one of demure nothingness, as might have been expected from one of his rank - there to serve, to act as cup-bearer, perhaps, and no more. She peered closer, trying to decipher the frozen look. On anyone else she might have said that it was affection that he aimed sideways at the knights in the foreground of the stationary image; but at that moment her nurse turned back from the end of the corridor and called for her, and Elena took off like a rabbit before she could be sure.

The artist had undoubtedly taken some liberties with the features of the servant, after all. Perhaps he was a symbol of how the general populace had adored the first common born knights. Elena had yet to learn much about art, after all, and so she put it away out of her mind.

 

oOo

 

At twelve she had become tall and thin, and could put almost all of the boys her age in the dirt within a minute on the training field.

Thirteen and she'd studied and dissected her mother's courtly manners, and could do the same - metaphorically, at least - to most any fool who sought to engage her on the verbal battleground.

People started whispering about her behind her back. They called her the dragon princess. The little bear on the hill.

 

oOo

 

The next time she saw her mother cry, she was fifteen years old.

She was meant to be out with Sir Leon, putting her new charger through his paces. But the young stallion had thrown a shoe, and Leon had shrugged and winked and called an hour's recess while the stable-hands calmed the horse and the smith was called for. Elena patted Hengroen on his velvety muzzle and whispered words of encouragement in his ear, and then flashed a grin at her mother's knight and took off towards the palace, her steed's safety in Leon's capable hands and a raid on the kitchen's at the forefront of her mind. 

She didn't quite make it that far.

The maids mustn't have seen her flashing around the corner ahead as they drew into the corridor, or they would never have allowed themselves to be caught gossiping about the Queen. Elena heard the elder of the two's words regardless, and they drew the young princess to a sharpish halt.

"-sent the princess away with Sir Leon again. Weeps her eyes out the same day every year, see. On the anniversary of his death, yes; the real one, not the day of Camlann. God knows how she copes the way she does-"

Elena froze in place, straining her ears to try and hear the rest of the conversation, but a door creaked open in the corridor behind her and clicked shut again with a swish of skirts, the heavy oak cutting off whatever else they might have said. For a brief moment she considered listening at the keyhole (it wouldn't have been the first time). But unease tugged at her more sharply than curiosity, and instead she scaled the nearest staircase and made her way uncertainly towards her mother's chambers.

The door to the Queen's solar was shut firmly, but unlocked. Elena still hesitated, not knowing if she wanted to see what was on the other side. Her mother was so very many things - beautiful and brave and strong as steel - and she obviously wanted her grief to be a private affair. But her mother was always there for her when she was sad. Wasn't it Elena's duty to do the same?

Elena girded herself, and knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" came her mother's voice, muffled by the wood. The princess couldn't tell whether she was crying or not.

"It's me, mother."

There was a pause that seemed to last an eternity, and the door swung open to reveal her mother standing upright and tall, face blotchy and eyes red. The Queen didn't even try to hide it, beckoning to her daughter instead.

"Come in, Elena, what are you doing waiting out there? Where is Leon?"

"Hengroen dropped a shoe," she said by way of explanation. "I thought I would come to see you while it was sorted out."

The Queen's eyes softened. "Of course you did. My thoughtful girl. Come, sit with me. Tell me how Hengroen is coming along."

And so Elena did, watching her mother's face closely for any signs that she might start crying again. But her mother remained cheery voiced and firmly interested, the red slowly fading from the whites of her eyes as they laughed at the antics of her spirited stallion. Elena had started to think that she had imagined anything wrong entirely. Then she caught sight of the painting, propped up innocuously and in clear sight on the fireplace mantel as though it always had been. And yet, she had never seen it before.

She cut off mid-sentence and blinked, needing a moment to take it in. Her mother followed her line of sight, mellow expression freezing, and together the two women sat and beheld the image together.

For a moment she wasn't sure that she recognised the likenesses captured. Gone were the crowns and courtiers, the jewels and ceremonial outfits, and the just slightly stilted smiles. No wonder she had never seen it before. This was not a painting of the King and Queen of Camelot, she realised. There was something incredibly intimate about the scene, her mother and father depicted over their evening, or perhaps morning, meal. Her mother's dress was simple and comfortable looking, her hair fallen loose and free. Her father's armour had been discarded and replaced with an open-chested shirt and crinkled pants. Instead of a sword he wielded a goblet of wine with good cheer.

And that was the most noticeable difference, she thought. By God, they looked happy - their smiles were for once not of the sort put on for a crowd, but full of companionship and familiarity and love. Her father beheld her mother as though she were the sun. Her mother's face was tilted to the side, her lips quirked in a mischievous grin. Elena's breath caught in her throat as she realised just how precious the scene she was being allowed to witness must have been. This was her parents at ease, alone, together. And yet. They _weren't_ alone.

"Who is he, mother?" Elena blurted out before she could stop herself.

Her mother recognised her meaning almost immediately - perhaps because, while her daughter no longer conversed aloud with the painting in the solar, Gwen had still been privy to nearly ten years of Elena scowling at that same face every time she walked past that particular painting. A mistiness crept up into the Queen's eyes.

"His name is Merlin."

"But who _is_ he?" If the servant had no place in the official paintings littered around the palace, then surely there was no reason for him to be here, in a piece so obviously private and personal. The burning need to know pushed aside all else; there was something here that she was missing, a vital piece of her parent's and her kingdom's past that she had not been privy to. She needed to know what it was.

Her mother seemed to take an awfully long while to formulate a reply, appraising the servant thoughtfully. "He was a lot of things, when your father was King. Oh, most people only remember him as a servant, and a poor one at that, but those people never really knew any of us. To the knights, and to your father, and to me, he was so much more. He was a companion, an advisor, one of the people who stitched the knights back together after a fight and kept us all laughing when things got dark. It took a long while for anyone to realise it, but he was a shield in the shadows for Camelot, and for your father and I in particular."

"I don't understand," Elena said truthfully. The Queen nodded.

"I would be surprised if you did. It took me years to puzzle it all out. But the most important thing, Elena, is that he was our friend. The closest friend your father had." Gwen paused, and now the tears did slip back into her eyes. "The closest friend I had, too. I never made it clear enough."

"Will you tell me about him, and about father, mother?" Elena asked shyly. "I'd like to know."

"Yes, my dearest one," Gwen said softly. "I think it's about time someone else knew the story."

 

oOo

 

It took months for Elena to learn the whole tale. It became a ritual between them; they would sit down in the evening, content in the knowledge that the kingdom would continue running on its own through the night, with a blazing hearth before them and a mug of spiced wine to keep away the chill. The Queen would speak, sometimes softly, sometimes with mirth, and always with a faraway and wistful look in her eyes. Elena would listen, and marvel in what she heard. There was so much, about her father and his knights and a brave sorcerer in the shadows, that was entirely and wonderfully new.

She soaked it all in, and she promised herself that she would remember.

With each telling, she noticed something peculiar. It was as though a weight that she'd never been able to see was being lifted off of her mother's shoulders. And perhaps it was; the weight of keeping the story safe for all those years, finally no longer her burden to bear alone. The queen began to laugh more often, to smile and remark of how Arthur would have loved this, or that. Sometimes Elena saw Sir Leon smiling softly at the Queen, and she knew that she wasn't the only one who had noticed.

It made her feel like she was doing something important, even if it was only to listen.

 

oOo

 

Sixteen was an odd age for Elena. For one, it was the first time that the words 'marriage' and 'suitors' began to be thrown around seriously and with abandon, mainly by the council.

Elena didn't have to think very hard or long about these suggestions. With the grace of her mother, and a head full of tales of a young prince and a bold King's Ward who never did as they were told, she eyed those councillors squarely and said two words with a smile.

"Good luck."

 

oOo

 

At twenty, Elena reached her majority. Her mother was in fine health still, and seemed to intend to live until she was one-hundred, so the date didn't bother her overly.

She did, however, find herself becoming restless. There were only so many knights for her to spar with, and she knew all of their fighting styles like she knew her own; there were only so many councillors willing to engage her in spirited debate about policies and history and magic. There were only so many balls to dance at. The kingdom was at peace, and quests were sadly lacking; Sir Leon was away visiting relatives, Sir Percival seemed to have caught some of her discontent and had taken off to patrol the borders for a spell, and her mother was busy with affairs of state. And, try as she might have over the years to alter her circumstance, she still found herself lacking in any who might have been called friends.

So she took to sneaking out of the palace. And, when the city of her birth could no longer satisfy her, out of its walls entirely.

Under the canopy of the forest she found something like tranquillity. Oddly enough, flattening the occasional bandit seemed to help her with her moods.

"Take up something useful! I hear the palace is always on the lookout for new jesters!" she shouted at the backs of the latest batch as they fled away between the trees, unable to be bothered with chasing after them. They hadn't been very good at their chosen profession, after all. Instead she sheathed her sword with a sigh, shaking her head, and turned to offer a hand to the bandits' would-be victim.

"That was very nicely done," the young man said brightly as she hauled him to his feet. He let go of her hand to brush away the dirt and leaves clinging to his battered jacket, chattering away as though she had not found him in the process of being threatened by a half dozen club-wielding thugs. "My deepest thanks, milady. For a moment I thought that one with the awful moustache was going to get the better of you, considering you were fighting off the other three, but that last feint was just _beautiful_ if you don't mind me saying - reminds me of…" the young man trailed away.

The two of them stared openly at one another, each as though they had seen a ghost.

"You… ah… sorry, you just looked a bit like someone I used to know, all of a sudden," the young man said, his blue eyes suddenly not looking quite so young.

Elena couldn't seem to find it in herself to drag up a reply that was anywhere near as tactful. Instead she found herself blurting out, " _Merlin_?"

The princess didn't know which of the two of them was more surprised, or frightened, by her outburst. But before she could say another word, Merlin simply vanished. Ceased to be, popped out of existence, leaving her alone in the forest with only her bewilderment and her sword for company.

 

oOo

 

She didn't tell her mother; partially because it would have meant admitting to her excursions, but mostly because she still wasn't certain he had even been _real_. He'd looked exactly as he had in the paintings. He hadn't aged a day.

There was madness in her family. She didn't want anyone to think it had come for her just yet.

 

oOo

 

It was tradition in the royal family of Camelot for the heir to the crown to undertake a grand quest, alone, as proof of their skill, courage, and commitment to the kingdom. This Elena had known almost since birth. Her father's quest had made an entertaining tale over the dinner table, though she had always felt that she was missing something in the telling, the way Leon and Percival would exchange glances and over-stress the word _alone_. The trident he had been sent to fetch still called the vaults of Camelot its home, and her mother had shown in to her more than once.

There were grumblings from the ministers over the question of her gender, when the time began to draw near, and whether it was appropriate to send her on such a journey unaccompanied; Elena told them where they could shove their opinions. Her mother's knights backed her decision, and the Queen gave it her blessing. Elena could clearly see the worry in her mother's eyes, and she would be forever grateful to the other woman for allowing her to do this - it would assert to all that Elena _would_ sit on the throne after her mother, and that even were she to marry, rule of Camelot _would_ be hers.

That night she found herself in the throne room, bedecked all in white with her feet bare to the chill air. Alone.

And then the visions came.

They were fleeting and confused, and Elena had to focus with all her might to hold onto any kind of meaning. Had she not been familiar with the caress of magic she might have been disorientated completely. She saw the distant mountains, the spires of Camelot, a raven on the wing, among a million other fragmented images; and then, more clearly and concretely, chimney smoke drifting lazily above a tiny farming village. A lake hidden by mist and ringed by forest, a tower rising from its centre to pierce the clouds. The White Mountains in all their majesty, a cave hidden by their profile.

And beneath it all, a shield. It was unadorned save for a dragon wrought in gold that _might_ have been Camelot's crest, and yet most assuredly was not. It seemed to be made of metal, and yet it was far too bright for that to be, wreathed in shadow. And it was strong. She knew that somehow. She knew that it was important.

When she exited the chamber at morning's first light and found her mother waiting anxiously she offered her a tired smile.

"I have my quest. I will return with the Shield That Can't Be Broken."

"And where will you find it?"

Elena paused, then shrugged. "I'm not really sure. The vision wasn't specific. But I have an idea of where to start."

 

oOo

 

Her quarry was elusive. But Elena was stubborn.

She met him in the wild places - in the corner between kingdoms, at the edges of the map. Considering the merry chase that had led her halfway across the Five Kingdoms, she was rather annoyed that _he_ was the one who found _her_.

"Alright," he said crossly, popping into existence to her right and trudging along the path beside her, as though he'd been there the whole time. He was dressed just as unassumingly as the first time she had happened across him, in trousers and shirt and neckerchief that had all seen better days, like a farmer or stable-hand. Elena started violently nonetheless and pulled her sword with a _shring_ before she recognised her new companion. He didn't seem to notice.

"That's it. No, really, this is the limit. First you harass my mother, then you track down my dead wife and pull her up for a chat, then you nearly get yourself roasted alive heckling my bloody dragon - when are you going to give up and leave me alone?"

"Erm… well… certainly not now that I know you're real," Elena pointed out hesitantly. She stopped walking and buried her sword in the ground beside her, reaching out when the warlock did the same and poking him in the arm. Either he was very much corporeal, or her madness was progressing faster than she'd thought. "Yep. Real."

"Hey!" Merlin said indignantly. "…you may have a point though. I didn't really think this through."

"Then why are you popping up now? It's been weeks since I tracked down Aithusa, and she hardly gave me much to go on."

Merlin eyed her closely. "You don't seem very perturbed. I was kind of expecting more of a reaction. If not to the appearing out of thin air, then maybe to the fact that we appear to be the same age. I took it from our last meeting that you know who I am." Elena shrugged. She'd spent months on the road trying to find a shield, which she suspected was actually a warlock, who may have been a figment of her imagination. At this point she'd accept Merlin if he sprouted wings, if it meant finally packing up and going home. "Heh. Well. In answer to your question, you're about to wander into a bandit camp. You'll want to head to the east next time the path splits."

"…have you been _following me?_ "

Merlin muttered something that sounded suspiciously like _Pendragons_. _"_ Naturally. The heir to Camelot goes rabbiting off into the hills alone, people tend to notice. When your father did things like that, he had a tendency to get into trouble that he couldn't climb back out of. I decided that keeping an eye out might be… prudent." He clapped his hands together. "So! Why have you been trying so bloody hard to find me? Did I make that much of an impression? Or did the Queen send you to track me down?"

It was so brief, so deeply buried, that Elena barely caught the way his face tightened when he enquired about her mother, the jolt of pain layered in his voice. His entire manner may have been that of a jester or a fool, so inviting of blind confidence and trust - like an imaginary childhood friend suddenly made real - but she was reminded firmly that this man was twice her age, and had seen things she likely never would. "No. My mother doesn’t know what I'm searching for. Even I wasn't sure, exactly. The visions actually showed me a shield. This is my coming of age quest."

For a moment Merlin was speechless, his face crinkling up as though he thought it might be a prank. Then his expression smoothed out blandly. "Ah. Yes. It would be about that time, wouldn't it. I'm flattered, but it's a poor joke on you, unfortunately. You may have found me, but I'm not going back to Camelot."

"Yes, you are."

"Nope."

"You don't have a choice."

"Pretty sure I do."

"If you don't accompany me back to the city, no-one will believe that I completed the quest. I'll have failed, and won't be able to take the throne."

"Shame."

"You'll be single-handedly responsible for forcing the rightful heir to abdicate, and throwing the kingdom into civil war. Sounds like a poor way to end a lifetime of trying to protect that same kingdom."

"That's low," the warlock said indignantly. "Tell you what. I'll write a letter. Gwen will recognise my writing. And then you can complete your quest, and I can continue with my existence, and we'll all be happy."

"That won't work and you know it," Elena said with a frown, trying not to show that she was enjoying herself. "The aim of the quest was the bring the Shield That Can't Be Broken back to Camelot, to protect the city. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm quite certain that's you."

Merlin was silent for a good while, and she graciously let him think it through. "I do like that name," he said eventually. "I have a lot of them, but that one is particularly good."

"Mother and Sirs Leon and Percival will be overjoyed to see you," the princess wheedled, seeing his wavering resolve, and the end to her quest just coming into sight.

For a moment she thought that she'd made a terrible mistake. Merlin's face closed down at the mention of the Queen and her knights, and Elena tried furiously to remember everything her mother had told her. The closest of friends, she'd called them all. Why wouldn't Merlin want to go back to his friends? Surely he had to know that he was welcome. Unless… she finally recognised the emotion clouding his features. Shame.

"They don't blame you, you know," Elena said quietly. "For my father's death. My mother started telling me stories about you when I was young. She talked about how important you were to him, how you protected everyone from the shadows. How you were the greatest friend Camelot ever had - that _she_ ever had. I may live up in a castle full of knights, but _you_ were the real hero in the stories I grew up with." She met him with her eyes. "They want you back."

"You have an awful lot of your father in you," Merlin said quietly. "And an awful lot of Gwen. Pick up your sword."

Not entirely sure why, Elena did as she was bade. The moment she grasped it in her hand, Merlin's eyes flashed gold, and the world faded away in a maelstrom of wind and light.

 

oOo

 

When she opened her eyes, she found herself back in Camelot. The courtyard was bustling, as usual, and every one of its occupants had frozen in place to turn and stare at her and her new companion. Magic might have been legal as long as she'd been alive, but appearing out of nowhere was still a pretty good way to get yourself arrested.

This didn't seem to bother Merlin, who took the opportunity to tilt his head back and consider the castle before them, craning around so as not to miss a thing. "All looks more or less the same. No pyres, which is a plus. Oooh, those are new!" he exclaimed, pointing excitedly at the floating globes of light that illuminated the courtyard in preparation for the coming night. "We really are free, aren't we?" the warlock added softly, so softly that she doubted she had been meant to hear. She decided it was probably better not to answer him.

"We'd better go find my mother," Elena muttered, waving off the guards sidling up on either side, as though they weren't entirely sure whether they were meant to be arresting anyone. Thankfully, even though she was travel-stained and exhausted they recognised her readily, and retreated with matching salutes. "Before someone else tells her."

"Lead the way, sire," Merlin said mockingly. He was hiding his apprehension, she could tell. She kindly ignored it.

 

oOo

 

They found her mother in the solar, staring at the pages of a book without really seeing them. Elena knocked on the open door hesitantly, not wanting to shock her mother with their sudden appearance.

Elena was the first thing Gwen saw, and the Queen bolted to her feet with a grace that belied her age and threw her arms around her daughter, with exclamations and demands and fierce strength. The second thing she saw was Merlin, standing sheepishly in the doorway with one hand raised in greeting.

Elena felt her mother go still. Gently she disentangled herself, standing to the side to let the two old friends have a proper reunion.

The Queen raised one hand to her mouth, the fingers shaking just slightly. "Hi, Gwen," Merlin said softly, and Elena realised with a start that there were tears in his eyes. "I know it's been a while. But, look, I found your daughter. She must have Arthur's habit of wandering off."

When her mother launched herself at the warlock, Elena was partially convinced that she was going to see her slap the man. But instead the Queen wrapped her arms around him, if possible even tighter than she had Elena just moments earlier, and proceeded to bawl into his shirt in a most unceremonious fashion.

It took all of two seconds for the warlock to follow suit. Elena slipped out the door. It was perhaps best to leave them to it.

 

oOo

 

When Elena was twenty-five, she showed Merlin the paintings.

The one of him and the knights. The one of the feast. A dozen others that she had tracked down over the years, showing him and her father, him and an aging man she was told had been physician when she was a child, him with a knight she knew to be called Sir Gwaine, him in the background of a portrait of a beautiful lady with stunning raven hair and a cunning, yet kind smile; Merlin, everywhere, in the background of feasts and ceremonies, always watching. Always needed. She told him the story of how she had gotten to know him before they had ever met, through these paintings and her mother's stories.

It was when she brought out the candid of her parents over their dinner that he began to cry.

She was fairly certain, by this point, that it was because he was more or less at peace.

 

oOo

 

When Elena was fifty-five, her mother passed onto the next world, and she found herself crowned queen.

Things were different in Camelot by then. Elena herself had children, and a husband, and she found herself telling all of them the story of the King, the Queen, the Knights and the Warlock, showing them the paintings she'd found hidden around the castle. When she was a child her mother had passed the story into her keeping. Now it was time for her to pass it on, too.

But still, some things were the same.

Camelot was still at peace, for one, and magic was still free and thriving, and she would uphold these, her parents legacies, for as long as she lived.

Merlin stood by her side at the coronation ceremony, for another, one step behind and to the right. The shadow at her back, as he had been her father's, and would be her son's. As young as the day she'd met him. Her mother's death had hit him hard, as she had no doubt her own would, in the years to come. Eventually it would become too much, and he would leave again, to wander the wilds as he had after her father had left them.

But her visions had not called him the Shield That Can't Be Broken for no reason. And she had no doubt that, in the next life, when they all came back to this land and she found her mother and father again, he would still be there, looking for them.

Waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments appreciated :)

**Author's Note:**

> I adore outsider POV, so I decided to do a whole series of it! I say this tentatively, because I'm only planning to have six chapters and I already have a couple of ideas, but I will accept prompts for this series. Who knows, if I get enough I might extend it! As always, let me know what you think!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Not a Stupid Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7790620) by [Drag0nst0rm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm)




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